


shattered and sundered

by emptyricebowl



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: M/M, Not Very British, attempt at using symbolism, general mental instability but with coping mechanisms, no beta we die like men, references to a lobotomy, tom is still dead, very brief - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptyricebowl/pseuds/emptyricebowl
Summary: The voice shook Will from his reverie. Lieutenant Joseph Blake of the 2nd Devons was to his right.Blake continued, “Odd seeing you.”As if this was a casual encounter between two old friends.
Relationships: Joseph Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	shattered and sundered

Will was in the city, buying groceries of all things when a white feather was tucked into the lapel of his jacket. He was stunned for a moment. A group of young girls fluttered past. Their laughing numbed him, rooted him to the ground, left him staring at the empty aisle in front of him as if he’d seen a ghost.

His wife’s bloody hand, limp against the side of the bathtub. 

A light draining from the eyes of Tom Blake like a brief candle snuffed out. 

His hand touched the feather. 

“You’ve got an admirer.”

The voice shook Will from his reverie. Lieutenant Joseph Blake of the 2nd Devons was to his right. He was giving the feather a rueful look. His eyes flickered up to Will’s and the thought of going through with The Lobotomy at the mental institution grew in appeal—if only to prevent his mind from deluding itself further. 

Blake continued, “Odd seeing you.” 

As if this was a casual encounter between two old friends. 

  
Will does not want to reconvene with his dead friend’s older brother. It was late afternoon, the girls would be getting home from school. Their neighbor would watch them, but Will was searching for an excuse. And he would have excused himself if Blake had not looked so desperate. On the way to the pub, Blake chose for their eventual unpacking of what Will knew their meeting would amount to, they delicately avoid speaking about Tom. Blake asked about perfect trivialities Will knew he cared nothing about, and likewise, Will repeated them. In uncomfortable situations one assorted to parroting back what had already been asked, especially when both parties were acutely aware that their conversation was bereft of substance. 

When they ordered their drinks Blake opened a door Will wanted to keep closed. 

“Someone mentioned you had a wife.” 

Will’s lips pressed into a thin, white line. “That’s right.” 

“How is she?” 

“She’s fine.” 

Blake nodded once, the slant of his dark brows furrowing in the center of his face. Will didn’t look at him any longer. He stared ahead, blankly, and concentrated on thinking about nothing. It was surprising—how difficult it was to empty your head of thoughts. His mind kept wandering back to The Lobotomy. There were people he knew who’d gotten it. Other soldiers. They seemed to benefit. Their quality of life increased exponentially after they’d recovered from the lethargy and occasional ballistic episodes. 

“I never got the chance to thank you for the letter.” 

“Why would you be thankful?” 

“It meant a lot to my mother. She was touched.” 

“Oh. I’m glad.” 

Blake chewed his lip. “I’m getting the feeling you don’t want to speak to me.” 

Will sipped his shallow glass of rum and said nothing. 

Blake continued, “When I returned from the war I thought there was nothing left living for. Everyone I knew, I had grown up with, were either dead or just as much. My family was devastated after Tom died. I was too. But I realized how damaging it was to think there wasn’t a point to anything.” 

Will sent the other an unimpressed look. “So you found God?” 

“There was nothing I had to look for. _He_ had been there all along.”   
  


Will heaved out a great sigh of despair. He really should have seen it coming. He stood up, made to leave. But Blake caught his arm. There was a vague smile on his face. 

“I was joking.” 

Will stared. Scoffed. Surprised himself with the brief flash of hilarity that shot through him like he’d been stuck with a dart to the side of the neck. He slipped back onto the chair. Blake watched him with almost apologetic eyes. 

“My wife is dead,” Will said. “She committed suicide.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“We‘ve all lost something.” 

A thoughtful look crossed over Blake’s face. Will could only guess what he thought of. Loss was prolific. Loss was so common it had become a platitude, something of little significance as it was so common among those who had survived it. Pretending it was remarkable left a dry taste in his mouth. As both of them were silent, but carrying on in their minds, this confirmed the idea that it was sometimes more useful to everyone to say nothing at all. And perhaps, it was counterproductive to wallow in it—the loss. Maybe everything should have been drowned out. If loss could be reduced, or beaten, if that was achievable then also one could triumph over their sorrow. Will saw people do it all the time. 

“That doesn’t diminish it.” 

Will’s head turned sharply to face the other. His eyes narrowed as if to inspect a spider that had wriggled out from a rock. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, yes, we’ve all lost something, but it doesn’t matter any less. And I don’t mean to say shut yourself in the dark and be miserable for the rest of your life, but you can’t just ignore it either. I worked with shell shockers who were told the only remedy was to suck it up and act like a man. This fixes nothing. It lets the suffering fester, to become something much worse until it flares up one day, and your whole world is blown to kingdom come.” 

“Don’t lecture me.” 

Blake frowned. “I was not.” 

“We hardly know each other.” 

“I feel like I know you very well. I feel like I’ve known you all my life.” 

Blake’s eyes bore into his. They were very hard and very clear, forcing Will to wrench his gaze away and into the bottom of his glass. He regretted snapping as he did, but he also thought that the advice was highly officious. He didn’t need to be told his sorrow was authentic, he knew, what he felt was utterly incomparable, like the slow excruciating crush under the endless weight of a tank track, all of his bones successively snapping, his blood flung about like it had been twirled by a mop. If he acknowledged the pain it would become unbearable. It was better to shove everything deep inside of him. He had taken his misery, wrapped it in a neat little parcel, and placed it in the deepest, darkest confines of his heart. 

“Your brother told me you would look just like him only older.” 

Blake raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” 

“It’s unpleasant to look at you.” 

  
Blake released a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re brutally honest, you know.” 

“I’m being honest with _pain_. Which is what you wanted.” Will hesitated, drumming his fingers on the table’s edge. “And I didn’t mean you were ugly.” 

  
Blake crushed him against the side of the building. His lips were hot, and his mouth was hotter. Will’s heart beat so violently in his chest it might have burst, maybe it was what Blake had meant, his feelings flaring up in a terrible paroxysm of emotion. He did not have time to worry. He was preoccupied with the weight of Blake against him, of the crackle of electricity as Blake bit his lip and pressed a knee between his legs. And Will was shaking, his arousal stinging inside of him. A kind of hunger. He fell apart swiftly, willingly, as if this was admittance to a crime he had no knowledge of committing. 

Blake broke away. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“Of course not.” 

Will pretended he was not attempting to fill some damn bottomless hole in his heart. At least it wasn’t morphine or The Lobotomy he had turned to. He had been stabbed. He had been staved clean through with a dagger that was so firmly lodged it could be removed, and he would die a horribly drawn-out death with pain so intense he’d resort to ignoble contrivances to remedy it. It was not a cure, but it did make him feel a little more alive. 

Blake’s fingers pushed his coat from his shoulders and a white feather came whirling out. It landed on the ground, disappearing into a puddle. 


End file.
